Lanterns
by SeriousSubwayFlirting
Summary: Revan sat, waiting, fear dripping down her throat. She knew what she wanted, and she knew what she deserved, and they were not the same thing. AU one-shot with LSF!Revan, wherein she spared Malak aboard the Star Forge. Written for and dedicated to the wonderful kotorqueen :)


_This was written for kotorqueen, my lovely partner in crime!_

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Revan sat, waiting. She looked at her hands. There were small spots forming on their backs, and the skin on her palms was papery, almost translucent, with fine vertical lines creasing the pads of her fingers. Years had passed since she'd stopped to truly observe her face let alone her hands, and she felt a twinge of sorrow at the change. Heavy eyelids closed with resignation, as she considered what was about to happen. She had thought it over too many times, far too many, trying to predict how he would react upon seeing her. Sometimes, her mind would picture him as happy as he had ever been; other times his face was sullied by unbridled rage over her selfishness. She knew what she wanted, and she knew what she deserved, and they were not the same thing.

She took a breath, pressing her lips together and feeling her lipstick sliding between them. It had barely seemed a decision at all at the time, but it had been the most important one she had ever made. Not for any but a scant few, she supposed. Surely, the effect on the general populace would have been no different had she taken his life that day. She rolled it over in her mind; perhaps it would have been no different for her, either. Saving him had broken her just as surely as killing him would have. She could not remember being happy without him, she simply did not know how, and so here she sat, after years waiting in the darkness, hoping that when he walked through those doors, he would still have that tiny lantern hanging in his heart, ready to light her way again.

Years before, her relationship with Carth, already rendered fragile by distrust, had begun to flake apart faster than she could salvage it. He wanted to know every last detail of the how and why, he wanted her to show him every last facet of her motivation. He suspected she was falling, returning to old ways, remembering who she was. In a lot of ways, he wasn't wrong. But it was not blood lust within her. She was not tempted by the darkside. Rather what fed the growing distance between them were memories older than war and murder and the millions of wretched acts and decisions that had made her into Revan the Butcher. Memories of a handsome young man with light in his eyes, who had left stains on her heart so indelible they would never come clean or fade, no matter how hard she scrubbed or how many times she dyed it with the colour of another.

When their story was told, it was always Malak who had begged at Revan's feet, like an obedient hound, but it was never truly like that at all. She had close to worshiped him, she had_ loved_ him, and if he was a constant by her side it because she wanted him there. He did not live in her shadow so much as cast it with the light that came from within him, and it wasn't until that blackest of blacks drove a wedge between them that there was any ever discord in their dealings with one another. She tucked her hands against her ribs as she thought of that moment, where all she was and all she had been and all she could be came down to a forked path: to kill him, or spare him. The months leading up to it, she had Carth at her side, and Malak on her heels, chased by the memories ebbing back to her. They were slow at first, like ice melting as the spring descends, coming to her only in cryptic dreams and strange feelings. But eventually they became a torrent, and when she'd held his wasted, bloody body and looked into his eyes, finally it swept her from her feet, taking with it any clinging doubt. Each question was answered, each prayer was heard, each hope was given life, and so she had saved him. There had been no choice for her, and he almost hadn't made it, but she opened something between them and absorbed each of his nightmares as though they were her own, like drawing poison from a wound, and it had worked.

At least, he had lived; whether his redemption had amounted to anything, she'd never had the chance to discover, for the Council had not approved and Malak had been taken from her almost immediately. Revan had not witnessed it, but by all accounts the trial was brief, and Malak received punishment for not only his own crimes but hers as well. Indefinite imprisonment, in solitude, his connection to the Force severed. Though she had wanted to, guilt kept her from visiting him; the knowledge that it was her actions that had done this to him was heavy on her shoulders, and she felt perhaps that she had done him a disservice by saving him. That in death he might have found peace, rather than the endless monotony of imprisonment, stripped of his rank and power and every other last dignity. It was a feeling ready and eager to torture her, and she was willing to submit, but grief could not stop time's flow for Revan. Soon she found herself with new threats and responsibilities that gave her no time to dwell. Still, Malak lingered constantly in her mind, and when Carth finally left she closed off that part of her heart, and in the empty space built a monument to that young man, bright-eyed and joyful and full of promise. Content she was to stay there, in her empty, quiet house of memories, until another, not able to simply watch Revan waste away, beat down the door and demanded answers. Powerless to the sway of this old friend, finally she allowed the turmoil within her to come eking out. Meetra Surik listened, patiently; she had been in the throws of rebuilding the Order, then, and taking the work in her stride, not a frown wrinkling her nose or a drop of sweat forming on her brow. She had come into her own, blossomed in a way that even Revan could never have foreseen, and despite the hopelessness dwelling within Revan's breast, she couldn't help but feel convinced when Surik suggested, with enthusiastic determination, that they simply petition for Malak's release on the Order's behalf. The process was slow and difficult and more demoralising than Revan expected, but Surik pressed ahead. Years of failed attempts had passed, seeing them swim through endless bureaucracy and forms and hearings, but finally, one afternoon a month ago, Surik had received word from the Senate, and once the news was shared, the two women had held each other and wept without shame. It was an unusual response for both of them, but seemed appropriate in light of all the pain and struggle the three had been through. Of them, only Malak never truly had a chance to begin anew, and it was a relief to both of them to have finally secured that for him. And now here Revan sat, waiting, in the small sitting area of one of Coruscant's many judiciary centres. Hoping, wishing, questioning, praying again.

She wrung her hands, anxiety beginning to rise in her chest; she wished that she had brought Surik with her, certain that the other woman's presence would have diffused any awkwardness. After all, there had never been any dalliance between those two, as far as Revan knew, and no attempted murder, either. A thought occurred, slimy and fearful: she did not have to wait here; he did not expect her, and she could slip away without him ever knowing she had wanted to see him. It was not like Revan to give into fear, but this was an entirely different breed of terror than she was used to facing, and after a second she found herself standing, able to keep herself there no longer. But as she turned to walk away, she was caught by a pair of eyes so deeply etched on her consciousness no passing of time could render them unfamiliar. Malak, standing there in some of the plainest, drabbest clothes she'd ever seen, his hands empty, holding everything he owned, looking as though he simply did not know where to go or what to do with himself.

It was every bit as uncomfortable as she expected; he looked as though he could barely fathom seeing her again, and she was stunned by how he had changed. No longer was he muscular, but thin with slack shoulders. His tattoos were hidden beneath a shock of dark, grey hair. Lofty cheekbones and a solid jaw were gone, replaced by the hard, shiny curve of metal; fantasies and daydreams had white-washed the day she had mutilated him, allowing her to forget, and she felt almost nauseous as denial was taken from her and she saw the evidence of her brutality he was forced to wear and endure. Those eyes, once bright, once full, were sad; not angry or yellow as they had been last she saw him, at least, but mournful all the same. He looked pathetic, lost, old, and it made her heart twist about itself and into knots. It had not occurred to her that he would age, and in her musings, he had always stayed the same youthful creature she had known, free of damage and pain.

It caused her a new sorrow; she was not disappointed, for it was not a matter of vanity, but rather it seemed to confirm every fear she held that she had robbed from him all the joy and happiness he had deserved in his life. It was almost enough to set her in motion towards the door again, but there was something else there on his face. It would have been easy to miss, so disfigured was he and with it his ability to emote, but she saw it in his eyes. It was something she had thought she would never be lucky enough to see again, and those eyes, as they had before, answered every question. She crossed the floor, certainty in every step, and sought no consent to hug him, as she had wanted to for years. He didn't ask, but returned it, and they murmured one other's names, any unpleasantness pushed aside and abandoned in the wake of this new beginning.

After a moment far shorter than Revan would have liked, he gently pushed her back, eyes sweeping over her face. "Let me look at you," he said, voice deeper and hoarser than she remembered, and with an edge of electronic distortion to which she was not accustomed. His eyes grew wet, thin, pale skin wrinkling at their corners.

She smiled, lips closed tight, and her chin dimpled from the effort of holding herself together. Unable to find any suitable way to communicate just how right this was, how okay everything would be, he hugged her again. She sensed his desire, and resulting hesitation, to rest his prosthetic chin against her crown, and she tried to indicate, with her thoughts and her hands and a gentle hum and a reassuring bob of her head, that she was not afraid of it. She was not and never would be afraid of him; he was not a monster to her, not a villain or a criminal, just the man that she had always loved. He relaxed, uneasy at first like he was dipping a shy toe in a hot tub, then sunk into the hug proper. Against her cheek she felt the hard length of his collarbone. She kissed it, lips lingering before splitting into a smile. From where it rested on his back, she snaked her hand to his chest, letting her palm fall flat over his heart. She closed her eyes, nudging her face against chest as his arms drew tighter around her. Beneath her palm there was a heat, a warm, steady glimmer, and she knew it was that tiny lantern, hanging in his heart, waiting to light her way again.


End file.
